


Smoke gets in your eyes

by UlsPi



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Addiction, Alternate Universe - Human, Getting Together, Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), M/M, Meet-Cute, Smoking, Strangers to Lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-05
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:41:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 9,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27816973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UlsPi/pseuds/UlsPi
Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley meet in a smoking room. It gets lovely from there.Aziraphale is on his way to Addis Ababa to purchase a rare Bible with the most hilarious misprints. Aziraphale collects such Bibles and makes his living restoring old books and consulting. He asks what Crowley does for living. Crowley is gasping for air. He can't just blurt out to Aziraphale that he's a travel writer; that he writes wonderful (in his publisher's opinion) books about the most remote and forgotten corners of the world; that his books spike enough interest in his readers to try and travel there; that Crowley speaks every language he needs to speak to gain trust among the people in those isolated communities, so the moment someone approaches them with their sly tourist schemes, those communities contact Crowley. As a result, Crowley gets paid quite a handsome sum, most of which he spends on making sure that the place gets a school, a clinic, an internet connection; he crafts a very complex contract for the people who want to set up a tourist business there, therefore it's the local people who start said business.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 112
Kudos: 56





	1. But nicotine slaves are all the same

**Author's Note:**

> This fic has a lot of smoking. I smoke. I quit 12 times and I still smoke. Please, don't give me any advice about how to quit again. I'm just trying to make fun of my own addiction. Sorry if it rubs you the wrong way. If you have to hate me, please, hate me silently or talk to a friend about how terrible I am. And I am terrible. It's alright. I embraced it. I thrive on making fun of my problems. I love you all for being here.

Crowley is all for public health, he is. He welcomed the smoking rooms when they were introduced, and he understands the reasoning behind gradually making said smoking rooms roughly the size of a suitcase. 

He's currently standing in one of those suitcases tapping on his pockets in search of a lighter, as his carefully rolled cigarette is dangling off his lips. Yes, he's all for public health, yes, he's a smoker who's slowly killing himself, yes, it's the only way he can socialise, damnit. He feels _ companionship _ when he meets another smoker. He despises big tobacco, too, by the way. His own comes from a farm somewhere in the States where every worker is of age and gets a decent salary. He's not a monster, after all. He's just a very good-hearted sinner, and that's it. He has more health checks when it's strictly necessary in his age, but one can never be too careful. He's learned the word  _ valetudinarian  _ exactly in order to explain it to his physician, who of course remarked that Crowley could just give up smoking, but both the good doctor and Crowley know that there's no  _ just give up smoking _ . That's why Crowley donates a lot to the anti-smoking campaigns and has a smoke afterwards. His deeds tend to bite him in the arse, but alright, what else is new?

He keeps tapping his pockets. The major drawback of the suitcase-sized smoking rooms is that usually there's no one else in them to ask for a lighter. 

Then a man walks in. He's dressed in white and beige, wears a tartan bowtie and has  _ a fucking pipe  _ in his hands. 

"Time traveler?" Crowley grunts. He's tapping himself so hard…

"Oh, not at all, my dear," the man beams. He has blue eyes. And white hair. He looks like an angel, and angels don't smoke. Yet, the man has a fucking pipe… not that he uses it for fucking, at least Crowley hopes he doesn't. "I thought you were trying to pickpocket yourself and then I realised how silly I was to suggest such a thing, so here you are." And the man hands Crowley  _ a fucking silver matchbox _ .

Crowley knows how to use a match, but those blue eyes are no match for any sparkle Crowley had the good misfortune to come upon. 

Crowley lights his cigarette and the man lights his pipe. 

"This thing is going to kill you," Crowley says, as he lets out a cloud of smoke. Oh, to smoke and have coffee, and when you do it together, it's fantastic… oh wait, it's that German movie with angels… But the point still stands. 

"This thing is going to kill you, too, dear boy," the man huffs around his pipe. It's more sinful than anything else Crowley has seen. "We're having such a sparkling conversation!"

"It's four in the fucking morning, we're at the airport and I bought two trashy romance novels and one noir which might turn out to be a romance novel too, but kinkier."

The man laughs. "The food is terrible, too. So is coffee. And no good tea…" 

Crowley can see a chance to show off when he's presented with one, so he waves his huge thermos in the air. (It's not an innuendo; it might sound like an innuendo and be vaguely appropriate for an innuendo, but it's not an innuendo; have I mentioned that it's not an innuendo? I think I have. Where were we?)

"Don't you carry your own around?"

"I don't travel often enough to get myself such a… thing." The man blushes. Fuck, it  _ was  _ an innuendo.

"Take a page from my book and get yourself one of those," Crowley recommends. It's an innuendo. 

"I'm sure, a seasoned traveler such as yourself, could help me find one. There are a lot of shops around here, after all." The man smirks. 

Crowley stares at the man. His sunglasses cover up for his embarrassment, they are the only part of his body that live up to that James Bond image Crowley has been cultivating his entire life. 

"You want me to help you buy a big ass thermos," Crowley clarifies. Honestly, he hasn't felt so skinny and ridiculous in his entire life. He has to say something to restore his cool. He catches a glimpse of his reflection in the glass wall and offers: "My hair is natural." 

Admittedly it went better in his head, but his hair  _ is  _ natural in all its wavy, auburn glory. 

"Oh… oh… haven't doubted it, my dear, but thanks for sharing. As it happens, I did take a thermos with me, but I'm afraid I gave it away."

"You what?" Crowley coughs on his next inhale. These things are going to kill him, right. 

"Well. There was this family, and she's expecting. She was shivering with cold, this air conditioning here, it's just terrible. So I… I gave her my thermos. Her husband was very grateful. Felt a bit less useless… she was wearing his coat, so I bet he'd done everything in his power, and…"

"Let me buy you a fucking thermos… Just… don't fuck yourself with it."

"Oh," the man purrs. "What if it's just my thing?"

"Crowley!" Crowley blurts out and offers his hand and probably his life too, but one can never know at four in the morning in the middle of a fucking airport. One shouldn't fuck in airports, though. Security everywhere, and so forth.

"Aziraphale Fell," the man replies. 

Crowley buys him the biggest and the best thermos. He finds some very good tea as well. Demands hot water with the air of a mighty conquerer. 

Aziraphale might be smitten.

They keep chatting, until their boarding is announced. Both are flying to Addis Ababa. 

Crowley is set in his first class seat. He might be pining a little bit, but it's nothing a cigarette in Addis Ababa can't take care of…

Son of a bitch!

Aziraphale sits next to Crowley and smiles at him. 

"I took the liberty of removing myself," Aziraphale explains, pulling out a tartan blanket. "You're such a nice traveling companion, my dear, and you smoke too. We should stick together and pray for our health."

"I don't pray!" Crowley replies in horror. (He totally prays. He prays when the plane takes off and when it lands, among other things. He's grateful for the planes and the fact that they mostly land safely.)

"Neither do I, my dear." Aziraphale indeed never prays. He thinks it's impolite to ask for things when one has never even met one's benefactor. 

***

It's a long flight to Addis Ababa from London. Almost 8 hours. Aziraphale seems to be content with chattering and reading, Crowley is content too, for a while, that is until his mouth waters and he realises he wants a smoke. He twitches. He stays hydrated. He gets a bit sloshed, which is a necessity, really, because one has to be sloshed to enjoy the alcohol on a plane, even if it's the first class. 

He tries to concentrate on what Aziraphale is telling him. So, Aziraphale is on his way to Addis Ababa to purchase a rare Bible with the most hilarious misprints. Aziraphale collects such Bibles and makes his living restoring old books and consulting. He asks what Crowley does for living. Crowley is gasping for air. He can't just blurt out to Aziraphale that he's a travel writer; that he writes wonderful (in his publisher's opinion) books about the most remote and forgotten corners of the world; that his books spike enough interest in his readers to try and travel there; that Crowley speaks every language he needs to speak to gain trust among the people in those isolated communities, so the moment someone approaches them with their sly tourist schemes, those communities contact Crowley. As a result, Crowley gets paid quite a handsome sum, most of which he spends on making sure that the place gets a school, a clinic, an internet connection; he crafts a very complex contract for the people who want to set up a tourist business there, therefore it's the local people who start said business. In the end, Crowley speaks another language fluently, girls get their education, sanitary products and healthcare, the community is thriving. 

He can't say any of it. It's his worst kept secret, but a secret all the same. 

"I'm a travel writer," Crowley says. He decides against mentioning that he took his sweet time learning Amharic, Oromo, Somali and Afar. "I just… travel around and write about it. Pays well."

It does, he's not lying. All his other schemes, his attempts to bring food and water to every damn place in the world… No one needs to know about it. People would think he's nice or something equally terrifying. He's not nice, you see. He likes good liquor, he has a Bentley and a flat in Mayfair. He's the most lonesome queer in London, but this isn't worth pointing out either. 

He lets Aziraphale chatter some more about those Bibles. 

Aziraphale's brothers are lawyers. They don't like Aziraphale, but they do their best to protect him and care for him all the same, so Crowley concludes that Aziraphale's brothers just don't know how to handle their affection for their younger brother. Aziraphale also says he's gay, but Crowley knew it the moment he lay eyes on the man. 

In response Crowley tells Aziraphale about the beauty of flying under the radar, metaphorically. He speaks about his desire to remain unknown and unnoticed, lest he'd be subjected to some form of judgement or other. At least the critics like him, he remarks smugly. 

"I'll make sure to read your books, dear boy!" Aziraphale promises. 

***

They have a quick smoke in Addis Ababa, Crowley argues with a driver for Aziraphale and sees Aziraphale off. They don't exchange numbers or some other nonsense. It was fine while it lasted, right? Right! Besides, Crowley is dreaming of that cute little cafe far from the tourist areas where he can enjoy a good coffee and smoke all he likes. 

The end. 

Right?


	2. Just gotta have another cigarette

Crowley is smoking furiously. It's his second cigarette in a row, and he's had two very sweet lattes. His thermos carries some Ethiopian soil, because he's a sap. His flat is full of IKEA jars full of various soils. He studies them in his free time. He feels very vintage when he does, because his microscope lives in his kitchen, and he smokes a lot, and he's sitting there, among the smoke, and studies soil. It's fun, you know, for a soil enthusiast.

The problem is - and there is a problem, because it's Crowley, he digs his own grave and studies the soil as he gets deeper - that Crowley's travels to god-forsaken locations make him appreciate the finer things in life, like clean water and canalization. (He manages to flush and rush out of a toilet on a plane at the same time, because he can't stand the sound of the eternal battle between the plane and the air. He's extremely relatable but he thinks he's a coward.) After six months of traveling in rural Ethiopia, Crowley asked his agent to book him a trip to New York. Since his agent is evil, they set up some interviews and booksignings for him as well. As they put it,  _ You'll be there, Crowley, so do something other than weeping over the shower.  _

Bea knows him too well, he thinks, lighting his third cigarette and sipping on his third latte, and it makes it very tempting to both fire Bea and let them handle everything in his life, which they do anyway. Crowley has just handed him his bags and got another bag in return - clean clothes, fashionable shoes (it's just new Blundstones, but Crowley makes them look fashionable) and a collection of perfumes. 

"I could have bought it all here, duty free." 

"Well, you don't have to," Bea told him. "But buy me some whiskey on your way back. And bring me a bagel. Don't eat it, like last time!"

So Crowley is smoking. He doesn't want to go to New York, but he doesn't want to go to his empty flat either. He considers another cigarette but he's dizzy. Probably it's high time he's found some disgusting, sticky pastries. 

"My dear boy! Fancy seeing you here!" Aziraphale enters the smoking room and beams. Nothing beams here, the ventilation is far too terrible for it, but Aziraphale beams all the same. 

"Hi," Crowley says. His third latte is about to end. His brain supplies him with the images of terrible pastries. Crowley scorns his brain and tries to remind himself about the virtues of salads. His brain tells him that an airport salad is more dangerous than sticky pastries. Crowley hates his brain. He wants a good salad, damnit! 

Aziraphale, oblivious to Crowley's salad-induced turmoil, lights his pipe and lets out a magnificent cloud of smoke. It's so magnificent and so cloud that it looks just like Aziraphale. Crowley has to eat. 

"How are you, dear boy?" Aziraphale asks.

"I want a salad," Crowley admits. 

"Oh… oh dear, oh dear. Oh, just let me smoke for a bit, then we'll get you some salad, my dear. I read your books, by the way. Exquisite, they are! And I'm carrying your thermos with me all the time! Where are you off today?"

Crowley stopped listening after the salad was mentioned. Crowley hasn't known he fancies salads so much… No one could blame him, though. Salads are good… Fuck it, he's a writer. Nothing is just  _ good.  _ He has a running list of synonyms for _ good  _ on his fridge.

It's no good. 

Aziraphale sucks on his pipe. Aziraphale has no right to suck on anything in a public place, and Crowley knows it because he cares about public health. 

They find a nice place with nice salads. Crowley shoves a lot of five-a-days into his mouth to presumably make up for his smoking. He knows it doesn't matter, but it makes him feel better. 

"That's some admirable… vegetable tooth you have, dear," Aziraphale says. He's moaning over his own dish which is just a full English breakfast, nothing special. Aziraphale's lips somehow are not shiny with grease. Aziraphale is so proper it almost hurts - in all the right ways, although each time something hurts, Crowley thinks he's dying. He's not dramatic about it, he's not. I said, he's not dramatic about it! For fuck's sake!

"Where are you headed now?" Aziraphale asks innocently, which is, his tone is innocent, and nothing else about Aziraphale is innocent. He looks like an angel, but he's Elvis, pardon, angel in disguise. 

"New York. Want a museum, a bagel, and a couple of hours of walking around Strand and buying books I won't ever read…"

Aziraphale looks as if he were called out. "Well, I intend to read every book I buy. I mostly manage, but I feel so guilty about reading less than I should!"

"Where… where are you headed?" Crowley asks. He's full of vegetables like a rabbit, living or stuffed. 

"New York as well, as it happens, dear boy! There's an auction and I've been invited to consult there. How about we make sure we're seated together? It's a long flight after all."

***

Aziraphale is gentle and polite, so in general, the world bends to his will like a very flexible thing. He's seated next to Crowley and they chat. 

When they come to New York, Crowley argues with the driver for Aziraphale and sees him off. 

The end? 

Not bloody likely!

Aziraphale has the driver drive back, lowers his window and gives Crowley another beaming smile. 

"Ngk," Crowley says.

"Indeed, my dear. How about we have dinner once we're both settled?"

Crowley nods.

"Good! Lovely!" Aziraphale seems nervous, so Crowley has to make things worse. 

"Has anyone ever refused you anything, angel?" There he goes, he's flirting. He's proud of himself, until he sees Aziraphale's face falling into an anxious expression. 

"As a matter of fact, quite often."

Crowley quickly blurts out his number, email address, Skype name, Discord name along with the code, Telegram and WhatsApp.

Aziraphale hums. "As far as I know, the last two are connected to your number, so could you repeat that, my dear?"

The driver grumps. Crowley sends him to hell with the accent of someone who's spent decades in New York and is not afraid to be an arse about it. The driver looks at Crowley with awe and distrust. There really isn't anything else for Crowley to do other than hop into the car and snarl at the poor driver some more. (It's alright, he's going to be tipped so hard by both men.)

Aziraphale invites Crowley to Ama Raw Bar, because they do  _ remarkable things to oysters _ , and as he says it, Aziraphale's eyes glimmer in the dark.

***

Let's take a breath and look at the situation from Aziraphale's point of view. His reservation was made a month ago so he's at least sure of this. He's looking around - and sees Crowley, who's sauntering down the street in Aziraphale's direction.

Crowley stands out in the crowd, although there's almost no crowd, the fate has made it so, and Aziraphale's heart skips a beat as he watches Crowley walk, walk, walk over to Aziraphale, shining brighter than all the lights of the city that never sleeps. 

_ Ooooh, New York _ , Aziraphale hears Alicia Keys singing. 

_ If I can make it there, then I can make it anywhere, _ Aziraphale hears Sinatra croon. 

And Crowley is walking to Aziraphale, lost in thought, hips swaying, black clothes accentuating every angle of his, and he has so many of those. 

He's walking, sure and lost, full of swagger and absolutely vulnerable. He's smoking too, he's inside his own private cloud.

_ No place in the world that can compare, pull your lighters in the air,  _ Alicia Keys keeps singing.  _ These streets will make you feel brand new, these lights will inspire you… _

And Crowley is walking over to Aziraphale to have dinner with Aziraphale. It might be a date, it might be the beginning of a beautiful friendship or of a life-long romance. 

Trombones and trumpets soar in Aziraphale's ears.  _ I'm melting away. I'll make a brand new start of it, in old New York. It's up to you, New York, New York! _

Crowley finishes his walking, sauntering, whatever he's doing with those damn legs of his and stops in front of Aziraphale. He puts his cigarette down against the sole of his shoe and carefully places the remains into a nearby trashbin.

Sinatra croons and roars in Aziraphale's ears. 

"So… shall we go in, my dear?" Aziraphale invites.


	3. Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, I own nothing.

It's late when they stumble out of Ama Raw Bar. Crowley has indulged in the bar part far more than in the seafood part, but he's lovely and unhinged. He's lovely when he's unhinged. His red hair is dancing in the wind. He lights a cigarette and inhales with a groan of liberation. Aziraphale could relate, although Crowley himself is worse than nicotine, and to think, Aziraphale has been smoking for years, yet this lanky nuisance is more addictive. He has to be fought and… and… and…

"Dance with me, angel!" Crowley invites. He's very inviting. 

"I don't dance, my dear."

"Oh, come on, angel. It's night, few people around, and it's New York! I'm no Sinatra but I can hum like anything!"

And hum he does! 

_ Each road that we took turned into gold _

_ But the dream was too much for you to hold _

_ Now over and over, I keep going over the world we knew _

It's a heartbreaking song. Aziraphale hates it. Aziraphale excludes it from Sinatra's canon the same way he excludes Robert Southey from the Lakes School, although for entirely different reasons. See, he loves Keats and Byron and Auden, therefore Wordsworth and Southey don't bother him, and Coleridge is his idea of a kink, at least when he's sober, which he's not right now, however much he'd like to deny it.

Crowley grabs his hand. "Dance with me, angel!" Crowley's cigarette is dangling from his lips, just as the day they met. Crowley's smirk is infectious. 

_ And every bright neon sign turned into stars _

_ And the sun and the moon seemed to be ours _

Aziraphale lets himself be swirled and turned and swayed down or up the street, oh, it doesn't matter anymore, Sinatra is in his ears and Crowley just in front of his eyes. 

_ But the dream was too much for you to hold _

_ Now over and over, I keep going over the world we knew _

Aziraphale looks into Crowley's eyes, well, into his lenses, because that stupid man insists on wearing his sunglasses at night.

And Aziraphale is just about to say something like whatever it is he has to say to break the spell, but Crowley's lips are moving, and far more assuredly than his legs, if Aziraphale may say so himself.

_ I know I stand in line until you think you have the time to spend an evening with me _

Aziraphale can't hear him very well, but he knows the song just as well. The handsomest man on the planet is humming it to himself as they keep dancing like a couple of fools. Aziraphale doesn't like being a fool, but with Crowley it's somehow alright. 

_ And then I'll go and spoil it all by saying something stupid like I love you _

Crowley is a clumsy dancer by Aziraphale's standards, but he's good at improvisation, which Aziraphale has never mastered.

Then Sinatra is pushed away with all his toxic masculinity and shit, and there's just Ella, soft-voiced and the Almighty's voice of choice.

_ Fight, fight, fight it with all of your might _

_ Chances are some star-spangled night _

_ We'll find out as sure as we live _

_ Something's gotta give, something's gotta give, something's gotta give _

Crowley's laughing like a loon, so happy and sure. He's leading Aziraphale in a very mad dance, and Aziraphale's following, which is the scariest part. 

Ella stops singing, and the city stops making noises, and there's just that impossibly tender voice of Johnny Mathis.

_ Chances are 'cause I wear a silly grin _

_ The moment you come into view _

_ Chances are you think that I'm in love with you _

Aziraphale doesn't think he needs to be in love. He needs a smoke, by the way. He tells Crowley so. 

Crowley lets go of Aziraphale and rolls him a cigarette. 

And then he leans closer to touch the tip of his cigarette to the one he has put into Aziraphale's mouth, just to light it, but it's not the cigarette that's lit. Crowley curses and pulls out a lighter. It's Aziraphale's cigarette's turn to hang off Aziraphale's lips and keep Aziraphale breathless without any nicotine involved. 

"What the actual fuck!" Crowley curses at the lighter too. Somehow it doesn't break the spell. It seems nothing can break the spell. Aziraphale is pretty sure that when he wakes up in his hotel room because of the garbage trucks, even they wouldn't be able to break the spell. It's fucking unbreakable. 

Crowley manages to light Aziraphale's cigarette. "Not as good as a pipe, but it's the best I can do at short notice," Crowley smiles, and the streetlights dance in his eyes, no, lenses. 

"I should… should get back to my hotel," Aziraphale says. He takes a step away from Crowley, who nods in understanding and just kind of summons a cab. "Safe ride, angel," Crowley says. "It was… it was great, getting to know you a bit."

Thankfully the driver doesn't offer any ill-advised wisdom. But he's listening to old Greek songs. Aziraphale hates that he can understand Greek. He can hear all that anguish, all that yearning. He's too old for this, but alas, he's not old enough to outgrow Greek. 

He risks a glance out of the window - and he sees Crowley who's still dancing down the street, a shadow, a spectre, a demon, lean and graceful in his awkwardness. 

"I can't allow it," Aziraphale says out loud. "I won't pine for that silly boy because he stared at me when we ate oysters and filled the streets with music. I won't long for him."

Crowley is left behind, finally, but he's imprinted into Aziraphale's retinas like a curse. 

Well, good night and good luck to Aziraphale. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, I'm on fire


	4. Puff, puff, puff

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, it's a very short chapter, but there will be more today

Crowley is watching Aziraphale's cab drive away, and he keeps watching even as he's dancing along the way. It was a good evening, a good date too, and Crowley didn't get enough opportunities to make a fool of himself.

So naturally, he breaks into a run. The wet and cool air is sharp against his lungs, but he's been torturing his lungs just the same, so he grins, bites his lips and runs faster. 

He feels the stubborn and sleepy wind break against his chest, he can hear the echoes of his better judgement, but he keeps running all the same. There's nothing like making a fool of oneself after a good date.

He runs and runs and runs, he runs after Aziraphale's cab. He doesn't have enough breath to cry out, to scream to the driver to stop, but he has enough energy and foolishness to keep running. He might appear a madman, but he's the sanest he's ever been, because he's old enough to try and build up something instead of letting it slip it through his fingers and disappear forever until another smoky airport meeting. 

So he's running. 

***

Aziraphale doesn't see him running, but the driver huffs a laugh. "That one's a keeper. Or a creep. Pretty, too. If you're not interested…"

Aziraphale hears himself gasp in indignation, which is surprisingly due to the fact that a driver knows better. (Of course a driver knows better, really, Aziraphale, so elitist.)

***

The problem with almost everything is that almost everything has an aftermath.  _ Der Morgen danach,  _ if you will. 

And one has to  _ deal with it _ , sadly. 

So Crowley is dealing with it by drinking coffee at seven in the morning in a diner by his hotel. He doesn't have Aziraphale's number, because he's an idiot, a romantic, a fatalist and a hopeless mess. See, when Crowley has to plan something, he has Bea for it. He can plan his travels and his books and so forth, but anything freestyle is just impossible. He has to see a purpose, and he usually doesn't, unless he has a book to write or a community to rescue. It's hard enough with being overwhelmed with the thought of becoming a fucking white saviour…

Crowley gestures for more coffee. Takes his filled cup and walks outside for a smoke. It's foggy around him, and people are very angry as they go to work. Well, none of them is as pretty as Aziraphale, that's for sure. The sky is grey, the air is grey, the smoke is grey, it's all so ambiguous that Crowley wants to consult something absolute, like Feynman's lectures or Goethe's poetry or Marilynne Robinson, just to make things existentially clear, whatever he means by that. 

The cars are loud and numerous. Crowley remembers he made a fool of himself just the previous evening.

To drown this memory he lets out a nasty cloud and gulps down half his mug in one steaming go. 

He goes back in for a refill, then back out for another cigarette. The staff look at him with the distinct lack of fondness, and Crowley rolls his eyes. Why New York? Why? He's more used to the Mediterranean way of things, where a cup of coffee is a long affair that lasts until lunch. No one would have paid him any mind in Spain, he thinks. 

Crowley opens his diary and looks at all the neat meetings, signings, whatever that Bea has made for him. He sighs. He can do it, get through it and fly back to London. Maybe he'll have better luck there. He might look for Aziraphale and ask him out properly, with a bit of flowers perhaps. Or a jar of soil… None of Crowley's dates has ever appreciated his soil gifts. Idiots!

***

Aziraphale is smoking his pipe and looking at his phone. The air is cold but his camel wool coat is withstanding it all admirably. It was spring only yesterday, it was, and it had everything to do with that skinny writer, damn him and bless him. 

No, Aziraphale won't spoil a good thing by making it last. Aziraphale doesn't think of, say, cognac or his favourite antique books which show that it's only the good things that last and it's only the good things that withstand the time. 

His pipe has died out. Aziraphale is searching for his matchbox, but what comes out of his pocket is a cheap plastic lighter that Aziraphale pocketed without any ill intent. It's a souvenir. It bears the Ethiopian flag.


	5. Smoke, smoke, smoke

Were I as big as a whale and as full of meaning as Melville, I would write big ass chapters with big ass messages and inventive plot points. Alas, fuck it, I'm not a whale, not prince Hamlet, not Lord Byron and not Melville. I can never be Thomas Mann. It always takes me very few words to say what I want to say. Blame big tobacco. 

***

Crowley is smoking and watching his flat through the smoke. His flat is lovely, especially after such a long time away, and Crowley has come to accompany every good feeling with a cigarette. He smokes after sex, he smokes when he takes a bath, he once tried to smoke during a shower, which was disgusting, but in his defense, he forgot how wet water gets. 

Crowley is tired, jetlagged and planning his trip to Burma. He learned the language in the university, so it's a cup of tea, presumably. 

He orders some pizza, because he doesn't want to order another pizza every day. He can postpone the ordeal by ordering four pizzas and survive off of them. 

To calm his nerves, he goes shopping, brings home quite a lot of vegetables and makes himself a bowl of salad to balance out his smoking and pizza. He has everything, in short, and thus he retires to the bathroom where he settles with pizza, wine, cigarettes, Proust and David Attenborough. He can eat, drink, smoke, read and watch TV at the same time. His is a restless mind.

He has his phone with him too, because he keeps hoping that Aziraphale will call or reach out any other way, although Crowley is aware that he himself hasn't reached out… 

Well, he googled Mr Fell, he did. But he doesn't know what to say, should he summon enough courage to write an email. What could it possibly be?  _ Hello, it's your airport smoking buddy. Can't stop thinking of you. Dinner? _

And Crowley once brought a jar of soil from that vineyard in Chile on a date with a magnificently hateful man who'd sworn off alcohol in his early teens, so that hypothetical email can't be that bad, can it? No, tell me, can it? I'm telling you, it can't! That date was a disaster, and the less spoken about it, the better. Well, it should be said that Crowley sent that prim bugger a box of the finest Merlot. Yes, it was a waste. Yes, Crowley was petty. But also, he's pretty, so he can be forgiven. He even thinks Aziraphale might like it. 

He takes a bite of his pizza, a sip of his wine, a drag of his cigarette, turns the page of Proust and weeps over misplaced orangutans. He has to pause all of it to donate some money to an appropriate charity. 

And just as he's transferring the money, he gets a message from Aziraphale. 

_ Hello, my dear. This is Aziraphale. Oh, I've made a mess of things I'm afraid… How about we have dinner? _

Crowley drowns his tablet, his phone, his Proust, his pizza, his cigarette and his wine. He's sitting in all this mess and grins like an idiot.

***

His phone and tablet are snuggled in a bag of rice he doesn't remember buying, his hair has a bit of cheese in it, and he lights another cigarette before replying from his spare phone he doesn't remember getting that he's just drowned a lot of stuff and needs help with rescuing Proust from a wet death in Venice, no, he's not in Venice, but he needs help with Proust. 

Crowley smiles smugly. His shirt is fluffy, but black, his pants are fluffy but black, he's warm and hopeful. Oh, he doesn't know shit, poor dear.

***

Seeing Crowley's message, Aziraphale chokes on his pipe. This thing will indeed kill him, but apparently Crowley, the sweet clumsy darling, will get to him sooner. 

Aziraphale packs his bag and demands Crowley's address.

***

Which Crowley provides. He has cheese in his hair, he can't be blamed for being an idiot. 

***

Crowley is taking another drag of another cigarette. He's warm and grinning. Things are looking up and he's looking at engagement rings on Etsy out of curiosity alone. Were he serious, he'd contact that old jeweler in Namibia. 

His doorbell rings. Crowley grunts. But on the other hand, what if his neighbours need help or some soil? After all, he has soil! And he can help! He has cheese in his hair but he can help! He so can! 

The truth is, Crowley's a superhero when he's traveling, when he has to think on his feet, to be quick, to wonder smartly, to learn from the people whose help he seeks. 

He opens the door - and oh…

Oh…

Oh…

Aziraphale is there. He's… he's sweet. He's warm. He's home.

Actually he's glowing with righteous fury, but alright, Crowley is fine with this being the last thing he sees. He wants to be buried in all his soils.

"Where's Proust?" Aziraphale asks. "I'm sorry I didn't get back to you in New York."

"Ngk," Crowley says and… gestures. His gesture means the following:  _ welcome to my humble abode, what's mine is yours, Proust is on the string I tied in my bathroom, and no, it's not a sex dungeon, although it might be for Proust. _

Aziraphale smiles. "Dear boy, please, let me take care of your Proust."

It's the dirtiest thing Crowley had ever heard, so he gestures again, then steps aside to let Aziraphale in and invites him to follow, which Aziraphale does. Even his steps are sweet. 

"You have cheese in your hair, my dear."

"Hope it brings my eyes."

"It doesn't. It makes you look deliciously disheveled." 

Aziraphale examines the book. Proust looks sick. 

"I'm sorry to ask, but do you have a fan?" Aziraphale asks, scrunching his nose. 

"I have a fan club!" Crowley replies. "Oh… oh, you mean that fan… I don't."

"Hopeless," Aziraphale says fondly. 

He subjects Proust to some peculiar manipulations that mostly involve Aziraphale adorably fussing and showing off his soft hands. 

"I need a smoke," Crowley says and has one. 

Aziraphale chases him away from the book. Crowley obligingly goes to the kitchen. He still has enough pizza. 

"You want some pizza?" Crowley yells into the void of his flat.

"Darling!" Aziraphale steps out, holding the book carefully. Crowley wants to be Proust in more ways than one. "You.. you mistreat books! And you eat pizza!" 

"What should I eat? I had salad too!" Crowley points to a huge bowl of salad that screams like a banshee  _ I'm full of vitamins, absolve me or whatever. _

"Crowley, let's have normal dinner." Aziraphale pops Proust, wrapped in a plastic bag, into the freezer. Crowley doesn't want to be Proust anymore. "And a smoke." Aziraphale helps himself to Crowley's tobacco and they stand close to each other and smoke. It's mutual ruin, it should be popular among the impressionable youth. 

"We should… go to the Ritz?" Aziraphale suggests.

Crowley has long suspected that he has some weed in his tobacco, but now he has a solid proof. 

"The Ritz?"

"It will be a very proper dinner. Not the most normal, I guess… but… we had a good time in New York, didn't we?" Aziraphale asks shyly. His eyes glow through the smoke. 

"Ritz… Ritz it is. And if we can't eat there?" Crowley starts calling the Ritz. He notices that he looks too fluffy for anyone's good, specifically his own. 


	6. Everything's gotta stop when they have that cigarette

Aziraphale ordered a cab the moment Crowley announced that there was indeed a table for two at the Ritz, so now they are waiting for the cab, and judging by the way Aziraphale is dressed, Crowley half expects to hear the hooves once the cab arrives. He's alright with it, he's swooning, because Aziraphale is examining Crowley's collection of soils. 

"It looks quite demonic, my dear, all these… jars. Lord knows what devilry you engage in," Aziraphale smirks. He looks like a person who knows far too much about any devilry. "And why does every jar have a weird number on it?" Aziraphale asks innocently. 

Crowley finally discovers the joys and agonies of indignation. "These are geographic coordinates!" He spits out. 

"Oh," Aziraphale seems both embarrassed and confused, but either way, he's so sweet, he's so soft, Crowley just wants to hug him and find a home in him. "And… and you know… which place each set of coordinates…"

"Of course I do! I can also identify the coordinates by looking at the soil! With a microscope of course." Crowley rubs his nose. He doesn't feel well when he implies he's clever. He does know he's clever, so it must be enough. 

"My dear, you're simply stupendous," Aziraphale says softly. "How very lucky I am to have made your acquaintance."

Crowley is expecting the hooves any moment now, because no one talks like that, but on the other hand, Crowley doesn't swoon over anyone… 

It's not true and he knows it. He swoons over sloths, pandas, quite a few species of worms, some species of slugs, quite a lot of species of frogs, puppies, kittens, baby snakes, tigers… Add one angel to that. Aziraphale does look like an angel. 

"You look like an angel," Crowley says quietly. 

"Thank you, my dear." Aziraphale blushes. 

***

For most of their dinner Crowley doesn't eat, that is with his mouth. He devours Aziraphale with his eyes, and oh, fuck, back at his flat, Crowley didn't wear his sunglasses, so Aziraphale saw his weird almost yellow eyes. 

***

Aziraphale eats with his mouth and thinks of Crowley's eyes, those bright eyes, with a glint of mischief and full of insatiable curiosity with a hint of endless yearning. 

***

They step out for a moment to have a cigarette. When Crowley protects the flame of his lighter with his hand, said hand is so close to Aziraphale's lips and smells of tobacco and bourbon soaked cherries, although they haven't had any of those. 

They breathe out their clouds of smoke, and the clouds mix into one in the cool air. Their breath comes out as smoke too, and that smoke, their breaths get mixed as well.

***

The dinner is over too soon. There's nothing else Aziraphale wants to eat, but he wants Crowley to keep watching him like that for just some more. 

"How about we retire to my place, my dear?" Aziraphale asks. "I have a few bottles of very good wine, and the night is young."

The night preens at the compliment, but it's fucking two in the morning. The last thing this night is is young, but it gets Aziraphale's vibe, so to speak, and so does Crowley. They are sloshed already, Aziraphale wanted to get sloshed with Crowley, so Crowley wasn't allowed to drive.

Crowley eagerly accepts the invitation, which is how he ends up sloshed and talking about bananas on Aziraphale's sofa. Crowley suspects he's making little sense, but Aziraphale is looking at him fondly. 

So Crowley falls asleep on that sofa.

***

And when he wakes up, he sees Aziraphale, all fuzzy around the edges, blue-eyed, pale, fresh from the bed, wearing a tartan robe and offering Crowley a cup of coffee. 

"We quite… overindulged last night, didn't we?" Aziraphale giggles, then winces at the headache. "I hardly can resist myself the temptation of a good company, and you, my dear, are a spectacular company!" Aziraphale sits in his chair, the one he occupied last night, the one that's shaped like Aziraphale, as far as Crowley is concerned. 

They drink their coffee. Even Aziraphale drinks coffee. 

Aziraphale lights his pipe, Crowley rolls himself a cigarette. 

This is awkward. 

"I still have some pizza left," Crowley offers. 

"Oh, fuck, yes. I'm in no condition to consume something with actual taste." Aziraphale is serious, but his eyes are twinkling and there's a smile, bravely fighting its way to his lips. 

"It has some actual taste, and I think it's awesome," Crowley argues. 

"Right now I'm inclined to agree." 

"I'm calling us a cab. You can come like that," Crowley nods from his phone at Aziraphale's tartan robe.

"I totally can come like that, not that I ever have… usually I require less clothes. I'm quite hangover…" Aziraphale flirts, then blushes, then gazes at Crowley hopefully. 

Crowley is in the middle of trying to take a breath. Or surviving a stroke. 

"Of the two of us, you're the one who looks clean and collected," Crowley says finally. "I'm wearing yesterday's clothes and need a shower."

"Oh, darling, that I have to accompany you, lest you drown another book. Or two."

***

Aziraphale is definitely not the kind of a gentleman who rides a cab in his pyjamas and nightgown. But he's not the kind who rides a cab in such a state of distress and underdress in the company of a dashing young writer who is actually looking even worse than Aziraphale. Dear boy will have to be herded into the bathroom, sans books probably.

The cabbie doesn't pay them any mind, which is very kind of them, all things considered.

***

Back in Crowley's flat, Aziraphale all but pushes Crowley into the bath and sits by it with cold pizza. It's heavenly, but Aziraphale won't admit it. 

Crowley suddenly stands up with a yell.

"I'm naked!"

"Yes, darling, you are, and I can see that now that you're standing. Get down."

Crowley gets down. 

"And I want pizza."

"No pleasing you, my dear." Aziraphale brings him pizza and ponders. "How about I join you?"

"You'll have to be naked too," Crowley concludes and politely shuts his eyes. 

"I'll bring tobacco," Aziraphale says and leaves to fetch Crowley's smoking kit. 

***

So, there they are, naked, in a bath, smoking and eating cold pizza. It's the best.


	7. He'd raise me and I'd raise him

The pizza is no more, the water is cooling down yet again, the smoke is heavy in the air. Aziraphale is soft and pink and a cloud par excellence. Crowley is a bit like a dried apricot, but a baby dried apricot. He's sweet and wrinkly, that's what I'm trying to say. Aziraphale is indulging in the smoke getting in his eyes, because he can ogle Crowley, and isn't that strange? 

Aziraphale is sitting in a bath with Crowley! They are naked! And Aziraphale still thinks it's important to hide the fondness in his eyes, even if Crowley is far too blissed out with smoking, hot water and cold pizza. 

Aziraphale remembers he's frozen Proust. He doesn't care. It's a first. Usually he cares deeply about Proust.

"I'm getting out," Crowley announces. He stands up, he's naked. Aziraphale doesn't register that, not really. Instead, it's… comfortable. It's domestic. It's what Aziraphale imagines old married couples do. 

***

Aziraphale is examining Crowley's soils, his kind face fond and lively. Crowley is watching him from the sofa. 

Every now and then Aziraphale asks Crowley where this or that soil comes from. Crowley replies without skipping a bit, but he's so pleased at the way Aziraphale looks at him, awed and preening, as if Crowley had just complimented him.

"Now, where am I?" Aziraphale suddenly asks, turning to face Crowley fully. 

Crowley pauses for a moment, he needs it, to fully process Aziraphale's question. And then he gives Aziraphale his coordinates with a proud smirk. 

"So clever, my dear boy… How did I ever get so lucky?" Aziraphale smiles and takes a step closer to Crowley. 

"Asking… asking myself the same question. But… but not the same. Not about me… I mean…"

"Shhhh," Aziraphale steps closer still, his hands in the pockets of his… abysmally cute and equally terrible tartan robe. "It's alright, darling…" He wants to tease, but he can't! There's that handsome man on the sofa, and that man, he brings samples of soil from each of his numerous travels, and he rolls those very thin cigarettes and ihe looks at Aziraphale with those… those lovely, peculiar eyes. 

Crowley is looking at him with a mixture of confusion and desire. 

And he fucking reads Aziraphale's mind before Aziraphale has any mind to pay mind to his own mind. Yes, it's a very fractal sentence. Praise be.

"You… you want to straddle me, angel?" And he opens his arms. 

Oh, you think you know your heart and your limits? You think you are in control? It only takes a moment! Boom, no equilibrium, oops, your whole being is being rewritten and rewired…

"I can never know your speed, though," Crowley mumbles as Aziraphale stumbles. "Momentum… or time."

"How very uncertain of you," Aziraphale tries to tease again but his hands know better and cup Crowley's face. 

"Yes, that's why it's called the principle of uncertainty," Crowley rasps.

"Oh darling… shut up." Aziraphale leans in and breathes in and kisses Crowley. They taste oddly the same - same tobacco, same cold pizza, same sparkling water… Yes, there was sparkling water. San Pellegrino. 

There are notes of each one of them in it, too, and those notes fit perfectly. The kiss is far too perfect for two people who shared a few smokes, a few meals and a lifetime of having no one to appreciate their brands of sass and weirdness. Crowley is as weird as a fungus, and Aziraphale is as weird as an archaebacterium, which is to say that each one is a kingdom all on his own. 

Aziraphale deepens the kiss because he's a greedy bastard, and Crowley obliges because he's a fungus, he can make life out of anything. And because Aziraphale tastes good. Nothing like salads or cold pizza. Aziraphale tastes like baked apples and vanilla ice cream and champagne. 

Crowley cups Aziraphale's face too. 

Then he holds Aziraphale's hips. 

Then he has to break the kiss to tell Aziraphale that he's soft and beautiful and precious and that Crowley wants him, but no pressure. 

Aziraphale huffs and kisses him again. He would have been content with Crowley's kisses for the foreseeable future, but like, as if he were a mountain and his foreseeable future were a couple of geological eras. 

And Crowley's hands are on his neck now, and his own hands are on Crowley's shoulders, prickling with their sharpness and grace. 

"These things won't kill me." It's Aziraphale now who breaks the kiss. It's really hard to write their making out, you know. "These things brought you to me. Those lonely rooms. That addiction. That ruin." 

Aziraphale barely acknowledges that he's a bit too dramatic and very,  _ very  _ decadent, but it's Crowley in his arms and between his legs. It's Crowley who seems to relearn to breathe with Aziraphale's mouth on his own. 

"Do you… do you want more?" Aziraphale asks.

"No… I mean yes. I want what you… I want you. I don't know." Crowley pulls Aziraphale back into yet another kiss. 

They stay there on the sofa, kissing and touching each other until Aziraphale is hungry again. 

Crowley kisses his ears and nose and lips and neck; and he laughs and he holds Aziraphale as he orders sushi for them. 

"It's… it's… a flat, when you're here. Not my dungeon."

"Oh, darling, I hoped for a dungeon," Aziraphale whispers and means nothing of it. 

They eat sushi. Aziraphale feeds Crowley. Crowley explains the etymology of each Japanese word they encounter on the menu, but it's Aziraphale who can actually speak Japanese, but it's Crowley who can read Ueda Akinari in the original. 

"You're leaving me breathless all the time, I hope you know it, darling, and accept the responsibility," Aziraphale remarks, finishing off his and Crowley's portions. 

The rest of the day is spent cuddling and talking about the discovery of longitude.

"You're so smart, my darling," Aziraphale praises sleepily. He cuddles next to Crowley. They are both naked, they are both the beginning and the end of each other, and each dreams of the other that night. 

Tomorrow is a new day, both dream of it, of what they'll have for breakfast. Aziraphale is dreaming of crepes and Crowley is dreaming of Aziraphale having crepes. 


	8. That's no way to say goodbye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry I made everyone sad.

Crowley wakes up cold but to a stunning sight. Aziraphale is sprawled on Crowley's bed, all… all… 

Well, naked, first and foremost. 

Pink and soft and gorgeous, that's ehm… not good with maths at the moment. 

All of Crowley's super duper triple master royal duvet is wrapped around Aziraphale's middle, so Aziraphale looks even softer and Crowley can stand being cold for a bit, but then Aziraphale opens his eyes. 

"Oh… oh my dear. I stole all the space! And the blanket!" 

Before Crowley can say  _ ngk _ , he's wrapped up in Aziraphale's arms and the blanket. "So sorry, my dear boy," Aziraphale says into Crowley's hair. "Your bed is sinful. You're sinful. I'm positively tempted to stop resisting."

Crowley can't really listen to Aziraphale's morning flirting, because he's flush against Aziraphale's front, he's warm, he's being held… "You're gorgeous, angel."

"That's because I'm not dressed," Aziraphale giggles. "I'm glad you like it." 

"I… do you want to…"

"Oh, darling, I want to."

"You didn't let me finish!"

"Are you against some edge play, darling?" Aziraphale teases. And he's gorgeous. Crowley is melting.

"I… I…"

"You're lovely, my dear. So lovely… how about we go back to mine so that I can be suitably dressed? Then we can, I don't know… do something?" Aziraphale glances down at Crowley. Crowley gazes up at him. 

For a while they gaze at each other. I don't know, grab a coffee. 

Crowley reaches behind Aziraphale for his tobacco kit, and they share their first cigarette of the day, looking either at the ceiling or each other. 

"We could have breakfast," Crowley offers. 

"Oh, you sly darling."

***

The rest of the day is spent in driving back to Aziraphale's (Aziraphale is horrified by Crowley's driving, but Crowley is too dashing for Aziraphale to properly argue), having breakfast together, kissing, more kissing, significantly more kissing, a lunch, quite a lot of smoking and then in the evening Aziraphale looks at Crowley as if Crowley were a cigarette after a long flight, and Crowley can't refuse Aziraphale a thing. They end up sleeping cuddled together. Again. 

There's some kissing of course. 

***

Crowley's impending trip to Burma is unavoidable and inevitable and every bad thing, although the trip itself isn't a bad thing. Aziraphale is aware of it, too, but he doesn't speak about it, so Crowley doesn't, either, although they spend much time together. 

Bloody hell, they spend all the time together, with Crowley researching and writing sprawled on the sofa at Aziraphale's place, with Aziraphale kissing Crowley silly at Crowley's place. Crowley likes it best when each one of them is working on their own thing - Aziraphale restoring his books and Crowley writing his books. The books appear to be crucial in this equation, but they are something that can be changed, they are variables. It can be cigarettes, food, showering, getting drunk etc but it has to be Aziraphale and Crowley together. 

They never talk about feelings, of course. Crowley thinks it's because of his departure. He builds an entire theory around it, which is too silly to repeat here. 

Incidentally, Aziraphale thinks the same. 

Therefore, as Crowley's trip is getting more and more impending, they gaze at each other more and more longingly and share more and more comfortable but not comforting silences. 

***

"Angel…" Crowley calls over endless clouds of smoke one evening. They are in Crowley's flat and Crowley has started to pack, he's desperate to have this conversation.

"My dear?" 

"I'm leaving in a few days. I thought… I should have asked earlier of course, but…"

Aziraphale's face falls. It's terrible, but maybe it's just because of all the smoke. Crowley moves closer - and no. Aziraphale is sad. 

"Angel…"

"I thought we could keep things easy, and then you'll leave and it will be alright. I doubt it will ever be alright when you leave…"

"Do you want to travel with me? It won't be comfortable, but maybe it's something you…"

"I can't leave, Crowley. This is it, then." Aziraphale rises to his feet and adjusts his bowtie and waistcoat.

"It? What? No, angel, that's not… I…"

Aziraphale smiles wistfully. "It's alright, dear boy. We have grown quite close, but it's good we haven't let anything happen between us…"

"We've had a lot happen between us! We practically live together! Angel, no, please…"

Aziraphale wipes a tear off his face. "My darling… it's better this way. I won't be able to cope with your prolonged absence. Had we become more… intimate, it would have been too hard for me to avoid heartbreak. I get attached easily, so… it's been good knowing you."

"Angel, please, don't go! Let's talk!"

"What is there to talk about, Crowley?" Aziraphale asks with a stern expression of his usually radiant face. "We've… No. I can't do this. Our lives are too different to fit well without some significant work, and it might not be even worth it in the end!"

"You're not making any sense, angel! I love you…"

"Oh, don't be silly! We've known each other for a few months. We've had fun, now it's time to move on. I can't travel with you, and you wouldn't want to stay… I wouldn't want you to stop doing what you like. You'd come to resent me eventually."

"I'm a grownup, Aziraphale, I can make my own decisions!"

"But you never consider the consequences! You don't think in the long run! Someone has to, my dear, and it's me. I can't change my life so drastically, I'm too old for this. I don't want you to change yours, even if you think otherwise. You might be too infatuated to think clearly!"

Crowley is silent for a while. He's hurt and he belatedly realises that he's crying. Must be all the smoke, getting into his eyes. 

"Could you… could you wait for me, angel? I can't cancel this trip, but then we'll have time? Maybe you… you want to think about how we could… fit better? I know I will think about it. I've been thinking about it…"

"You're a dreamer, Crowley. I… I can't wait for you. I'm not saying I'll find someone else, I'll never be able to find someone like you, but please… don't feel yourself… tied to me. Perhaps, what we've had is so lovely because there are no obligations." Aziraphale doesn't wait for Crowley's reply. He's hurt and heartbroken too, but he thinks that those are the marks of a true adult, of a responsible person. 

***

Crowley leaves two days too early. 


	9. Game of chance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't stay sad for long or leave you sad. I'm sorry about everything.

Aziraphale fully understands what he's done about a minute after leaving Crowley's flat. 

"Oh… oh my dear, dear boy…" He breathes out. 

But he's hurt Crowley. He's hurt the man he's grown used to fall asleep with. The man who has a key to his flat and to whose flat Aziraphale himself carries a key on a chain around his neck, because he's come to think of Crowley as his lucky charm. That's why they met all those times… all those three times… and in places where it's so hard to meet anyone, let alone someone you might fall for hard and fast. 

Aziraphale stops walking and takes a shaking breath. Those things will kill him. 

And so will thinking that refusing oneself happiness and silliness makes him a person of great intelligence. 

He rubs his face and resumes his walk. 

***

He doesn't call Crowley, but he thinks about him all the time. He briefly considers rushing to Burma and looking for Crowley there. He'd apologise, he'd cover Crowley's face in kisses, he'd admit to having been an idiot, he'd do anything…

But instead he's alone at his flat, sucking on his pipe and pretending he doesn't miss the taste of Crowley's tobacco on his lips. 

Food and wine bring no joy and neither do books. 

And the time is a rude, inconsiderate, responsible, adult thing. It keeps moving regardless but it does nothing to soothe Aziraphale's yearning. Even the time appreciates Crowley's cheekbones and the easily offered companionship. 

Of course, sometimes Aziraphale thinks about having accepted Crowley's invitation. He knows he'd have whined all the time, he doesn't even like traveling, but it might have been different with Crowley, because with Crowley geographic coordinates sound like poetry and love letters.

One night Aziraphale wakes up in cold sweat because he realises that Crowley said he loved him. 

And Aziraphale didn't say the same! Aziraphale feels the same, that much is true. He curses everything in his life that made him think that being a sap and a fool in love isn't recommendable. 

***

It's getting unbearable. It's been months. Aziraphale is worried. Aziraphale doesn't want to call Crowley. He wants nothing but to call him.

He doesn't know what to say, though. 

There's an auction in Tokyo, and he decides to go. It's a long flight, it's a distraction. Aziraphale has hopes, of course, but no one needs to know that, least of all Aziraphale himself, but hope latches onto him like a barnacle to a whale and insists on catching a ride to Tokyo. 

***

Crowley is smoking in a tiny little smoking room in the Frankfurt airport. He's tired, which is to be expected. He's not feeling well, which isn't to be expected but those things will kill him, and he lights another one of those. 

Unbeknownst to him, the wicked barnacle of doom is latching to his thermos and it's doing the barnacle equivalent of winking meaningfully. 

Crowley raises his head when someone enters -

***

The barnacles high shell each other and fuck off to latch to someone else. 

***

"Oh… oh my… Crowley!"

It's good that the barnacles have left, because they would envy the way Aziraphale  _ latches  _ on Crowley and kisses him, smoke and airport breath and exhaustion be damned! 

"I missed you! I was an idiot! Crowley!"

Crowley is choking on his inhale, but it's alright, who needs lungs anyway? He's certainly not the right person to ask such a question to, so he latches to Aziraphale just the same. 

"Get a room!" Someone yells.

"We've got a room," Crowley says, looking dreamily into Aziraphale's hazy eyes. "It's a smoking room and we don't need any other, do we, angel?"

Aziraphale holds Crowley tighter and whimpers in affirmation. 

***

Aziraphale cancels his trip to Tokyo and Crowley is definitely staying for the book fair. Aziraphale is coming with him and they will have to spend a lot of time outside smoking and definitely putting barnacles to shame. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> https://youtu.be/65_-vNtWLLs
> 
> The song that inspires the chapter titles


End file.
